Wednesday, August 31, 2005

I can't talk right head's in a rancid bin...

I now know I will have no problems if zombies do attack…most of my dreams are about apocalyptic events and the zombie attack ones are always the most fun, second only to one where I was in a pub with co workers and saw big triangular ufos and said “I knew the Americans had those things” before they promptly trashed the place. Anyway, I started a kitchen porter job here, which is not too bad, at least it’s money. My first job of today’s shift reminded me of a zombie attack as I cleaned out two fetid bins filled with rancid mussels and discarded chicken and steak etc. The burst leaking bin bags looked like some zombie’s guts as I prodded it with a discarded picnic bench parasol handle in order to coax out the gankfest into another bin bag while a co-worker liberally sprayed the surrounding area (and me) with Flash and water.

The awful stench wafted over the beer garden and some hellion says "you need to sort out our drains mate!" I felt like going up and saying “What?! lady!”… “You think a drain is the height of the horror that awaits me in my apron and wee rubber gloves* around that corner…you’re not the one who’s head is going to be in a rollie-bin in about 5 seconds you fat Norwich hag…shut the fuck up and jam your chips into your fat face or else I’ll have clean up what’s left at the bottom of this fucking bin next week!". Honestly just because you wear an apron people think you're a fucking idiot.

I mean the Jimmny has a strong constitution as those of you who have had the pleasure/misfortune** of seeing the effects of countless years of out-of-date ‘bargain’ beer deals, Buckfast and anything else you accidentally leave outside locked cabinets if I impose myself on you abode. (Irish people are like Vampires if you invite them over the threshold, you have to deal with the consequences...none of this civilised dinner party style 'emm would you like coffee?', if there is still alcohol of some sort in the house, then no...I would not like coffee...I don't know about you but I'm staying up to gibber nonsensically until you want to see 'Cobumbo')

Anyway, I had to walk away and take deep breaths every so often to prevent gagging. Apart from this, it is a good place, they normally say when you work in a restaurant's kitchen you wouldn't want to eat there, but I would actually want to eat there more since I saw their chef in action. I just concentrate on my scrubbing in a Machinist stylee thinking my demeanted thoughts about how all this will be worth it in the end when I'll be "Dr. Chief"(the Chief will abide, man). The job also means that I will always finish everything on my plate whenever I'm in a resturant, seriously the level of waste is disgusting from these punters...why go out for a meal if you're going throw most of it away? Also whenever some flustered academic tells me that she/he is "up my neck in work"
...I'll be able to say, "at least you're not up to your neck in bin! go to your office and write your fucking wank!" (God that was harsh, but us academics don't really save lives or anything. Unless some poor soul was going to top themselves because there wasn't enough theortical books about some obscure area, say superhero movies, and then-bam-they find yours!).

*Thinks: mmm must nab some of these for ‘nocturnal fun’.
**Delete as applicable

1 comment:

Joe said...

Damn right. The concept of "overwork" has been open to abuse for at least as long as I've been in academia. The problem is that it's infectious- it goes from the head of department ("god, I can't believe I have to write this book about a subject that really interests me AND teach in a forum where my ideas will subsequently be treated as givens") to 1st-year undergraduates ("fuck, man, I have to write a 1,500 word essay on Angela Carter. I just don't fucking get it. I might have to go the library.")

Wise words, Lorc.